


Shadow of Your Memory

by Levaaah



Series: Freefalling [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Blood Magic, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mind Games, One Night Stands, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, suicidal behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levaaah/pseuds/Levaaah
Summary: I do not want to be afraidI do not want to die inside just to breathe inI'm tired of feeling so numbThe black of her hair has lost it’s shine, it looks tattered and dull in the harsh fluorescent lighting. There’s dark circles under her almost lifeless brown-black eyes and her skin is so pale it’s giving off a sickly look. A miserable mess, wallowing in self-pity, plagued by memories of a boy in red and black.I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m FINE!If she tells herself that enough, maybe it will be true.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Original Female Character
Series: Freefalling [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631698
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Your Ghost

_* 2014 – December – London *_

_‘Dick,_

_~~I know it’s been a while and you probably don’t want to hear from me. When we last spoke,~~ _ _I said things that I didn’t mean ~~. I was angry and upset, but that doesn’t excuse my behaviour.  
Sometimes I wish that dad never took you in.  
~~We Wayne’s are dark; we live and thrive in it. You’re so very different, you are like sunshine. ~~  
People need you, you’re addictive in the most wonderful of ways.~~ Even on a cloudy day you’re still there, ready to break through and show people that despite the darkness, there is always light. For many years I’ve feared that living with us would snuff that light, that warmth out.  
 ~~All I ever wanted for you was for you to be happy’~~_

Eleanor glares angrily at the paper in front of her, she just couldn’t get it fucking _right._ She slams her fist down on it and scrunches it up into a ball, tossing it with the other ones in the overflowing trashcan next to the mahogany desk in her hotel room.

“Letter not going well for ya luv?”

“Shut up Constantine.” Eleanor grumbles.

“This is pointless,” the other male voice grunts, “I’m not getting paid enough to wait around for some second rate wizard to find _whatever_ it is–,”

“Warlock, mate.” Constantine interrupts, ”and here I thought you had a bloody deal with little missy over here. So why don’t you sit your pretty ass down for a bit, eh?”

Eleanor feels her eye twitch.

“I’m going to kill you, _warlock.”_

“Oh? You wanna have a go? Well, go on then!”

She hears the blade unsheathe and with an annoyed growl she stands up and turns, forcing the chair to thump heavily against the floor before she throws a batarang. It impales itself in the white haired man’s hand.

“Will you two stop fucking fighting already!” Eleanor snaps, “You’re getting paid for this,” she points at John, crouched on the floor halfway to standing up with a bunch of ingredients spread out in front of him. “And you!” Eleanor points at the mercenary. “You were told by your employer to help me finish this before I met him.”

Slade Wilson slowly sheathes his blade, pulling the batarang out of his hand and throws it back to her as the wound in his hand heals itself. She catches it with the tip of her fingers, flicking the remaining blood off and letting it clatter against the table before massaging her temple. A headache was definitely unavoidable with these two. Without a another word Eleanor turns sharply and slams the door shut once she’s out of the room, she takes the stairs up to the roof of the building two steps at a time. The cold December wind hits her like a freight train, leaving goosebumps racing across her skin as she gasps in air.

It’s the snow that triggers it, she thinks. Or the cold.

Small specks of white gently float down around her and all she can think of is that warehouse in the mountains. Eleanor smells the burning wood like she’s back there, feels the crunch of stone and the groan of metal as she steps forward to grip the lip of the roof. Her fingers dig so hard into the stonework that her knuckles turn white.  
  


_Jason._

  
A pitiful sob makes its way out of her throat, her legs feel weak and Eleanor sags down into the harsh concrete. She’s having a panic attack, she knows that, her breath coming in short and fast gasps. Her mind lists things to help automatically – _“you’ll need these tools to calm civilians”_ Bruce’s voice instructs, but as soon as she tries to reach out for any of it, it slips from her fingers.

Eleanor closes her eyes, tries to think. Imagining her mind like a library, each book, each memory, supposed to be stacked neatly on shelves. But it's a mess, she tries to make herself pick the scattered books up and place them in their correct place.

Then.

 _“What hurts more? Fore hand! Or back hand!”_ _Jason’s whimpering and groaning in pain. Joker turning towards the camera with a bloodied crowbar between his hands. “See bats, I’m teaching your little birdie manners!”_

Bruce had never wanted her to see the video, had hid it from all of them. Eleanor had thrown up when she’d first seen it and now it was all she saw when she closed her eyes. _Jason bloodied and broken on the floor_. She dry heaves, glad that she hadn’t been able to eat anything in a couple of days. Two maybe, or three, it’s hard to focus beyond the guilt and anger. Eleanor blinks her eyes open, trying desperately to find something to focus on. There’s nothing but snow, snow like the specks of ash outside the mountain warehouse. She’s still breathing too quickly, her vision blurring. She’s going to pass out soon, in the cold. Alone. _Just like Jason._ Hypothermia will set in after thirty minutes, it will take an additional two to three hours for her to die.

“Hey, kid!” A voice, deep and cold like the wind rustling through her hair. Strong hands grip her shoulders hard, forcing her to turn and look. One blue eye peers back at her. “Take deep breaths. Come on, don’t pass out on me, damnit.” The voice growls angrily, the fingers on her shoulders dig in painfully.

“Necklace,” she manages to choke out though the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Slade grabs the chain, tugging the shuriken up from under her shirt holding the piece of metal in front of her eyes. Eleanor doesn’t know how long she stares at the ‘R’ shape, but throughout it all Slade doesn’t leave, passively watching her until her breath comes out slow and even.

“You’re fucked up aren’t you, little bird.”

“Fuck you, Deathstroke.” Eleanor hisses out, leaning her head against the concrete half wall to her side. She doesn’t dare to close her eyes, doesn’t want to see Jason writhing in pain behind her eyelids again. Eleanor racks her brain to try and remember the last time she slept for more than a few minutes.

Nightmares were a constant. Closing her eyes for too long was just too painful. Jason with his bloodied cuffed hands reaching out to her with judging blue-green eyes.

_“It hurts so much Ella! Please help me!”  
“You were supposed to save me!”  
“I thought I was your brother; how could you abandon me?”_

“No!” Eleanor wants to shout, “I didn’t mean to, Jay please, I didn’t want this! I tried! I tried to find you!”

But no matter how loud she shouts, no matter how hard she fights to try and get to him, she can never reach him. The worst ones were when he just stared at her in silence with betrayal written in his eyes. Like she swung the crowbar herself. Those nightmares left her gasping for breath or feeling so sick that she had to run to the nearest bathroom to throw up.

The ones about Dick left her with tears running down her face and feeling so very empty. Like her heart had been frozen cold in her chest.

In her nightmares, Eleanor shouts. _“I hate you.”_ With so much malice and venom laced in her voice, she hardly recognizes herself. Dick is always stood in front of her, with hurt watery eyes.

Yet ever so gently he never fails to reply with, _“you don’t mean that. You love me, and I love you.”_

Eleanor stares at him yet watches the interaction from afar, hovering over her dark copy’s shoulder like a phantom or a ghost and feeling like she’s trapped in her own body, screaming desperately for it to stop. She doesn’t want to hurt him, yet she always does as her dark reflection’s eyes turning cold and hard, a cruel smile, all teeth, appearing on her face.

 _“Like I could love_ a gypsy. _”  
“I feel _disgusted _when I look at you.”  
“You think you _matter _? You’re just a charity case.”_

Each word makes him flinch, like she’s poking an open wound. Dark Eleanor walks away, leaving Dick heartbroken and hurting. Even as she’s pounding with all her might on invisible walls to try and go back to him. _Please no, I don’t mean it. I love you, please Dick. Don’t let me leave._

Eleanor comes back to herself when Slade grips her upper arm to haul her to her feet.

“I'm being paid to keep you in one piece, which means _not_ letting you freeze your ass off on the rooftop of a shitty hotel in London.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” she mutters in a monotone voice, not fighting him when he pulls her inside and shuts the door behind them.

“I don’t.” He replies, shoving her to the side. Eleanor grips the railing to the stairs to stay on her feet, her limbs feel stiff from so long in the cold.

“Right,” she hears herself say, “the heartless mercenary Slade Wilson, how could I forget.”

“You could always go back to Gotham, back to daddy.” He sneers, “its that or my employer. Either way job complete.”

Not the first time Slade had mentioned it, when he’d cornered her a week ago he’d told her the same thing. Either go home to Gotham or come back and meet my employer. Eleanor had told him she’d do neither until she’d gotten what she needed from John Constantine. They’d fought and Eleanor had lost in a matter of seconds because one; he was old enough to be her grandfather with way more experience than her.  
Two; Eleanor was and is in a mentally bad place where she’s lashing out in impulsive anger.  
And three; he’d caught her completely off guard while she was tracking down Constantine in some seedy London pub.

Yet _somehow_ he’d listened to her when Eleanor told him with a bloodied nose and a couple of cuts and bruises that she wouldn’t go fucking anywhere with him, over her dead body. So Slade had called his employer, with a short conversation that involved Slade saying something along the lines of “double payment” and “overqualified for this shit”, Eleanor had gained a fucking _guard hound_. Which of course when she'd had mentioned it to his face she’d ended up with another large bruise on her ribs in the shape of his fist.

“With all limbs intact, and alive.” He reminded her, his employer had said nothing of bruises or broken bones.

When Eleanor doesn’t reply or move, Slade grabs her arm again and forces her down the stairs, back into the room were Constantine has lit a cigarette, barely looking up from drawing magical symbols on the wooden floor when the door opens. She rips her arm out of Slade’s grasp, taking a stumbling step to the desk. Jason’s shuriken clacks against it when she hunches over.

“You alright there, luv?”

“’m fine, John.” She says through gritted teeth and shuddering, feeling hot and cold all at once. Her vision is still a bit hazy; she should probably eat something or at least attempt to drink some water, but the thought of food makes her gag, Eleanor attempts to cover it up with a chough, but she probably fools neither of them.

“Sure you are,” the warlock replies, it takes her way to long to realise that he’s staring at her, so she tilts her head up in defiance and gives him a _‘what?’_ stare right back. John’s eyes narrow, his eyes are blue too. _Why has everyone got goddamn blue eyes_. It’s not the same colour that Dick’s got, instead they’re a steely light blue that shows that he’s seen too much bad shit.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get ‘er some food, eh Wilson?”

“I’m not her butler.”

“No, but from what I gather you’re supposed to be keepin’ her alive, an’ she’s not looking too hot right now is she, mate.” He drawls in that accent of his.

“I’m _fine,_ John.” Eleanor snaps, “and I don’t need to be babysat by Slade fucking Wilson.”

Constantine raises his hands up as if to pacify her, “you’re gonna need the strength for the spell, luv. Right now you look ready to fall over from the bloody wind, let alone being able to handle this type of magic.”

Eleanor stares at him for a long time, wondering if he would actually lie to get her to eat something. Probably, John Constantine threw out lies as if they were candy on Halloween. But he wasn’t a complete asshole either, he did care in his own way, even if the Batcomputer classified him as a type two on the threat scale.

“If she’s dead when I get back,” Slade growls, taking a menacing step to the warlock – who just gives him the most unimpressed of stares back. “I’m killing you and taking whatever it is she paid you with.”

Before John can offer his own snarky remark back Eleanor steps between them, effectively cutting off the dick measuring contest. She’s fairly certain that she’d actually explode if they started fighting again. Slade doesn’t actually slam the door when he leaves, which is a relief for her headache and the tension in the room drops exponentially.

Eleanor crosses the room to the large double bed, being careful not to mess up any of the magical bullshit John’s drawing, the blood smells almost as bad as the cigarette smoke. But at least it’s not actual human blood. Goat, she thinks. Or maybe some other poor farm animal. She doesn’t touch the bed – this _really_ wasn’t a five, or even one star hotel, and Eleanor would rather not think about how long ago the sheets were changed. Instead she sits down by the end of it, on the floor and leans against the wooden frame, giving John a petulant look that he ignores.

“How long?” she asks.

“Longer if you keep interrupting me.” He leans back, grabbing his cigarette with two fingers and blows the smoke opposite of her as he glances out the window. “The moon isn’t in position yet, we’ve got a couple of hours. Probably.”

Of _fucking_ course the moon wasn’t in position. Eleanor rolls her eyes, glaring at the symbols as if they’d personally offended her. She hates magic. Bunch of illogical bullshit.

“Y’know luv,” John continues, “there’s still time for you to change–“

“Shut up,” she interrupts with a growl, Slade might have planted bugs in the room, she honestly wouldn’t put it past the mercenary, and Eleanor had no intention of letting him know what she was up to. “I know what I want, and you’ve already been paid.”

Eleanor is aware that he’s staring at her, she wonders if the reason he’s taking so damn long is because he wants her to change her mind. She holds the shuriken between her fingers, stroking her thumb over the bumpy metal. Eleanor wouldn’t, not on this.

A few minutes of frustrating silence goes past before John stands, abandoning the jar or pigs-blood _or whatever it is,_ and starts chanting in… Latin?

No, not Latin. Eleanor knew Latin, this was some sort of twisted language, inverted maybe? But it still made no sense to her. The glyphs on the ground slowly start glowing a sickly green, one at a time, before fading again. Slade steps in halfway through it, pausing just briefly before he walks towards her and tosses a white plastic bag that she clumsily catches.

“If you don’t eat all of that I’ll break your arm by the way.”

“Gee, thanks, dad.” Eleanor mutters back, peering into the bag, it’s a bottle of water and a very flat looking ham and cheese sandwich. Slade makes a low noncommittal noise, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he watches John work with one angry eye.

She’s not sure if it’s the best or worst sandwich she’s ever had. But she breaks off tiny bits and eats it slowly, not really that interested in it at all. While taking small sips of the water. When John’s done chanting in weirdo-Latin he sits back in the couch opposite the bed and lights another cigarette.

“There, now we wait.”

“For what.” Slade grunts before Eleanor can ask. John breathes smoke out of his nose towards the merc.

“For the bloody moon to shine in through that window.” He gestures with the cigarette, before looking at her. “You paid for this room for a couple of nights, right?”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. Yeah she had, the front desk clerk hadn’t even bat an eye at Slade’s swords and pistols, or the fact that she - clearly a teenager, had bought a single bed room accompanied by two men who were older than her. John had been the one who recommended it though so maybe she shouldn’t have been that surprised.

“This is going to take days?” Slade growls, pinching the bridge of his nose and standing up straight, uncrossing his arms.

“It’s going to take as long as it takes, ya bloody wanker.” Constantine replies, lazily slouching on the couch now.

“Are you going to walk out on this job, Slade?” Eleanor taunts, having no issue fuelling the fire. He gives her a very flat look.

“Eat your damn sandwich, kid.”

The childish part of her brain wants to poke her tongue out at him. Eleanor resists the temptation.

“Look,” John says with another puff of smoke escaping his mouth, “I work with the tools I got, now would ya _please_ stop posturing. As attractive as ya are, you’re givin’ me a bloody headache.”

Eleanor fake gags, the thought of _anyone_ getting it on with Slade Wilson made her feel queasy. The guy was an egomaniac and a ruthlessly unremorseful _killer_ for fucks sake. The mercenary just gives Constantine a flat look and low grunt before he walks over to the minibar, pulling a bottle of amber liquid out with an nondescript black label. Then takes two glasses and puts them down on the table in front of John.

“Now we’re talkin’.” The warlock says, removing his cigarette from his mouth to grin widely. Slade pours and then nudges one of the glasses to John, before sipping his own.

“You want one, sweetheart?” Slade questions holding the bottle up and glancing over to where she’s sat. Eleanor glares at him, flipping him off and nibbles on her sandwich again. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she dangles Jason’s shuriken in front of her. Soon she’d be able to let go of her guilt and anger, it would be nice she thinks. To not have to worry about all of it anymore, to know he was going to be okay.

“Got any interesting stories to share, mate?” John questions, downing his own glass, and sipping at the second one when Slade refills it.

The mercenary ‘hm’s’ thoughtfully for a second, “well, there was this evasive trainee of Lady Shiva...”

She gets up to grab her pen and the block of paper she’d been writing on before returning to the spot by the bed. Tapping the pen against the paper as she thinks. Eleanor wasn’t good with emotions, but she knew poetry. Would it be unfair of her to write a poem to Dick instead of a letter?

Eleanor starts writing, the soft lull of John and Slade exchanging war stories in the background becoming kind of comforting as she crosses out lines to re-write them or to get rid of them altogether. When she finally has somewhat of a finished poem, that tugs painfully at her heart she neatly writes it down on a clean page. Folds it just like Alfred had taught her and addresses it to Dick Grayson. Eleanor hopes he won't hate her too much for it.

_‘Of all the things I’ve ever said,  
Of all the tears I’ve ever shed,  
Of all the things I did to you,  
I want you to know that I still love you._

_I’m sorry.  
Ellie’_

Eleanor tucks the letter next to Jason's in her hoodies pocket before her eyelids start to grow heavy as she fights to stay awake. Listening to Slade retell the story of a three days cat and mouse chase he'd had with another assassin. She doesn’t want to sleep, just thinking about it makes her heart race. Opening her eyes in between blinks gets harder, it would be easy to just let go and just for a couple of minutes rest her head. Eleanor sighs, propping her head up on the palm of her hand, leaning her elbow against the dinning room table.

“Are you going to eat that?” Jay asks, startling her slightly as he points at what’s left of her sandwich, Eleanor raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve already had two tuna sandwiches, Jason. How can you even be hungry?”

“What can I say, I’m a growing boy.” He replies with a shrug and a smirk, “so? Are you going to eat that?”

Eleanor laughs, pushing the sandwich across the table to him, “if you throw up, I’m not cleaning it.”

“Challenge accepted!” Jason says, picking up what’s left of her steak and cheese sandwich, stuffing his mouth full. “Y’know–,”

“Manners, Master Jason!” Alfred admonishes sharply giving the fourteen-year-old a disapproving stare. Jason looks sheepish for a second before he swallows.

“Sorry, Alfie.”

The butler nods, turning back to cooking the Christmas dinner. Jason turns back to her, adjusting his domino mask slightly so the broken part of it won't dig into his skin uncomfortably.

“With B gone to the Watchtower, you wanna patrol together tonight, Ella?”

Eleanor looks up from the keyboard of the Batcomputer, rubbing at the side of her head.

“Of course! I’m just going to go over some of our open cases before we go.” She replies.

Jason reaches up to wipe some blood away from the corner of his mouth with his bare hands. Why doesn’t he have his gloves on? Eleanor turns back to look at the screen, pressing the play button.

“You see bats, kids these days just don’t have any manners!” Joker laughs, gripping Jason’s hair and tugs it back sharply showing off a myriad of scars over Jay’s throat.

“Ella? Can you make the pain stop?” Jason whispers, he inhales, and it sounds raspy, like he’s struggling to breathe, Eleanor glances down at the red crowbar in her hands. No wait, it’s not red, it’s steel coloured, it’s the blood that’s red.

“Oh don’t mind the little bird, he’s just got a punctured lung. Here! Just do it like this!” Joker tells her with a wide grin on his painted lips, golf swinging next to the chair Jason’s tied to. The crowbar clatters to the ground when she drops it, Eleanor takes several steps back. _Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare._

“What’s wrong Ella?” Jason asks, reaching out to snap his dislocated arm back into its socket with a sickening _crack_.

“You’re pretty good at taking a beating, aren’t you son?” Joker says ruffling Jason’s hair.

“No…” Eleanor chokes out, she tries to reach out for Jason, but she can’t move her arms.

“Whaddaya say kiddo,” Joker pushes the gun against Jason’s collar bone, “I’ve got one with your name on it! Or well, you know what I mean.” He laughs.

“Please stop,” she whimpers. Jason looks accusingly at her with tear filled eyes.

“How could you let me die, Ella?” Eleanor pulls the trigger and gun fires, ripping through flesh and bone. Jason screams.

“NO!” Eleanor shoots up, grabbing at something that’s not there before falling onto her hands and knees as sweat runs down her temple and back, she shivers from the cold that creeps over her. Or maybe she’s just trembling from the adrenaline. Someone’s saying something, but it sounds more like a long drawn out mumble. With shaky fingers she grabs the shuriken, running her thumb over the metal again and again until her heart calms and her breathing slows.

“Kid!” Eleanor snaps her head to the side, both warlock and mercenary are watching her from the couch, the bottle of whiskey half-empty.

“I’m fine.” She croaks out, her voice is raw and her throat sore, she must have been screaming in her sleep. Eleanor struggles to her feet, knocking over the empty water bottle and taking clumsy steps to the bathroom. She turns the tap on as soon as she enters, the water pressure is weak, but it still feels better when Eleanor scrubs her hands clean of blood, or try to, it doesn’t work, the more she scrubs the more blood runs down the drain. It’s not rational, some part of her brain whispers. She’s not bleeding anywhere. But the blood on her hands are still there. Eleanor looks up into the mirror over the sink, her pale reflection stares back at her.

The black of her hair has lost it’s shine, looking tattered and dull in the harsh fluorescent lighting. There’s dark circles under her almost lifeless brown-black eyes and her skin is so pale it’s giving off a sickly look. She’s lost weight too, judging by the way her cheekbones and jaw jut out more than normal. A miserable mess, wallowing in self-pity, plagued by memories.

 _I’m fine_. _I’m fine_. _I’m fine_.

She turns the tap off as there’s a knock on the bathroom wall. Eleanor turns to see John standing by the open door. No cigarette in his mouth for once, which is a bit surprising, the guy doesn’t seem to be capable of not smoking them. He opens his mouth as if to say something, no doubt another question of her wellbeing. Then changes his mind.

“Come have a drink, luv. It’ll make ya feel better.”

“I doubt that,” Eleanor replies, but maybe it’ll let her forget... So she nods, following John back to the couch, curling up on the side furthest away from both the warlock and Slade. A glass is held out to her, filled with whiskey. She sniffs it tentatively; the overbearing scent of alcohol is almost enough to make her put it down again. Instead she meets John and Slade’s eyes before downing it in one go. It burns going down her throat, before warmth spreads over her chest, blooming outwards. Eleanor has never been drunk before; it inhibited her ability to think straight. She’d tasted alcohol of course, when she had champagne at galas and fundraisers – which yeah, hadn’t been that often, Eleanor wasn’t of legal drinking age in the States. Even the parties that the classmates at Gotham Academy had invited her to, she’d faked drinking. Eleanor clears her throat, holding out the glass, nodding for Constantine to pour another.

Slade snorts, “you’re not supposed to drink it like that, sweetheart.”

“I don’t like alcohol,” Eleanor replies downing the second glass and grimacing. “I’m not drinking it because I enjoy the flavour.”

At least she’s feeling warm now, which is nice, she holds the glass out again and this time Constantine doesn’t immediately pour more amber liquid into it.

“You might wanna slow down, luv.”

Eleanor makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat, kicking lazily at the warlock’s thigh. She doubts it hurts, but he winces anyway, “just fill the damn glass John.”

“Cheeky brat,” he mutters, but pours and Slade chuckles, sipping at his own whiskey as if they hadn’t been drinking more than half a bottle already. Eleanor tilts her head, a bit puzzled.

“Can you even get drunk?”

Slade raises an eyebrow, not the one over his eyepatch. “No. Eh, maybe if I put enough effort into it.”

“Are you havin’ a laugh?” John says, eyebrows raised in surprise, gesturing to the mercenary, “you can’t even get drunk? Mate, I do not envy you.”

Slade just raises his glass and Eleanor downs her third shot. There’s a low pleasant hum in the back of her head by now, and she feels like her muscles are relaxing for the first time in a long time. Even the thought of sitting down and having a nice conversation with the two in front of her doesn't make her tense up.

“So kid, you’ve never been drunk before?” Slade questions, eyeing her from his position in the armchair.

“’Course not,” she replies, trying to get John’s attention by poking him with her boots. The warlock swats at her before lighting a cigarette, then grabs the bottle and shoves it into her hand. Eleanor pouts and pours a bit more of the whiskey into her glass, sniffing at it again. It doesn’t smell as bad now as it had a couple of minutes ago. It's got this kind of sweet scent to it.

“You’re tellin’ me,” John says, looking at her with raised eyebrows, “that you’re what? Sixteen or seventeen and have never been drunk before?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” she snidely remarks, this time when she takes a sip the flavour explodes on her tongue, vanilla, caramel and almond swirling amongst the wooden and alcohol scent. It’s… not that bad? Or maybe it’s just the alcohol in her system overriding her rational mind, that's probably right. 

John sighs, giving her a look of pity that she probably would have punched him for if she hadn’t been so cosy in the couch corner.

“You’re gonna have a right harsh hangover when you wake up, luv.”

“Assuming I’m going to sleep,” Eleanor points out, she’s never going to sleep again if she can help it. John smiles, or maybe it's a grimace Eleanor can't really tell the difference with him. Her face is starting to feel a bit warm and her mind has quieted down, she’s almost relaxing.

“You’re assuming it’s going to stay down.” Slade comments, Eleanor wouldn’t call his gaze playful by any means, but it was in that direction. She glances at what’s left of her whiskey and quickly downs it, giving Slade a challenging look that he ignores.

“Just ‘cause I’ve never been drunk before doesn’t mean I’m all innocent like you’re insinuating.” Eleanor murmurs, putting the glass down on the table in front of the sofa with surprising precision. Her fingers feel a bit tingly.

“Sure, you’re a regular rebel,” Slade scoffs mockingly. “Out all night, fighting and kissing boys.”

“Boy, not boys,” she mumbles, propping her head up on her arm over her knees.

“A boy, eh?” John says, blowing smoke in her face, she glares at him, waving the smoke away with her free hand. “Go on then, luv. What’s he like?”

Eleanor pauses, racks her brain for words.

How does _anyone_ describe Dick Grayson?

He was funny, he always had a witty pun or a snarky comeback to dish out, be it in a combat situation or just a normal conversation. He was emphatic and a natural leader, he’d been through so much, lost so much and still through out it all he was the rock that people relied on. He loved unconditionally and freely, both family and friends, would do anything to help and protect them. And when he loved he gave his all, he was strong and beautiful in every sense of the word. Dick wasn’t without flaws or fault, but he owned those, could admit when he needed help without shame. Learnt from his mistakes, took advice from those around him. He was sunlight in a world of darkness and Eleanor definitely did not deserve him.

She turns her head away from the two of them, hiding how her eyes water against her arm.

“He’s good.” Eleanor whispers. “The best person I’ve ever known.”

She barley notices when John plucks the bottle from her fingers, exhaling smoke as he leans back against the couch.

“Aye, I knew a boy like that once too,” Constantine grins, “a cheeky prick he was, made me feel all fluttery inside.”

“You’re not with him anymore?” Eleanor asks, brushing away tears to peer at the warlock. John grabs his cigarette, taking a long drag of it before exhaling.

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he died, luv.” He leans forward, grabs the bottle of whiskey and downs a couple of mouthfuls straight from the neck. Eleanor winces, swallowing thickly.

“I’m sorry John.”

“People close to me end up that way,” John shrugs, “I’ve gotten used to it.” He drops the cigarette in his almost empty glass and lights another one, leaning heavily against the back of the couch. Eyes staring at nothing, yet she can tell he’s seeing something.

“Well, this got depressing.” Slade muses, sipping his whiskey.

“Screw you, Slade.” Eleanor says loudly, glaring at him, “haven’t you ever loved someone other than yourself?”

“I have actually,” the mercenary replies curtly, gaining a distant look in his eye. When he doesn’t elaborate Eleanor averts her gaze, she wonders what type of woman could elicit that kind of response out of someone as cold as Slade Wilson.

John turns his head to look at her, “this boy of yours, why’s he not here, eh?”

“We broke up,” Eleanor blurts out, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She frowns.

“But ya still love him.”

She thinks of Dick’s smile, how it would light up his eyes, how easy it felt to be around him. Just thinking about him made her heartbeat quicken.

“I don’t think I’m capable of not loving him.” Eleanor replies honestly, was she slurring her words? Is this what being drunk felt like? That she could just spill her guts without hesitation? Because that was dangerous. There were things she knew that shouldn’t be shared with this kind of crowd. Batman wouldn’t be happy if he saw her now. Eleanor snorts at the thought, feeling a giggle crawl it’s way out of her chest. As if _Batman_ was every happy.

“So why don’t you go back to him, eh?” John prods, removing the cigarette from his lips. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Slade tilt his head in curiosity too. Eleanor leans her head against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. There’s water stains in odd patterns on it, at least she hopes it’s water. She inhales deeply, tasting smoke, alcohol and sweat in the air before baring her teeth in a sneer.

“You’re sly one, John Constantine.” She says drily, “get me to talk about–…” Eleanor pauses, _her boyfriend?_ No they broke up. Her friend then? Could she call him that after how they left things? Was he just the boy she would love for the rest of her life, now?

John’s good, very good, managing to distract her from what she was really doing in London, even considering going back for a brief moment, to see Dick again, but. “I’m not going back to Gotham.”

“Well, then you’re a right tosser aren’t you, luv. Giving up on something that makes you feel like that.”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough to take advice from a pathological liar and conman.”

Constantine snorts, raising the bottle.

“Cheers.” Then he stands, stretching and putting the bottle back on the table. “I gave it a good try; guess we better get started with the ritual then.”

Eleanor blinks once, jaw clenching in sudden anger. She wonders for a brief moment if anything John had said during the entire night had been true, or just enough bullshit to get her to open up. Before she can say anything however Slade lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me.”

Constantine looks over his shoulder at her and winks before picking up the jar of animal blood, murmuring in weirdo-Latin again. Eleanor stands, for a brief moment the room spins around her before she manages to steady herself. If looks could kill John Constantine would be dead ten times over by now, judging by the way Slade is glaring at him.

“We’ve been in this shitty hotel for six hours,” he growls, grabbing a sharp looking hunting knife from his gear. Eleanor takes a step forward, holding a hand out to interrupt whatever it is he was going to say, or do.

“Don’t kill him, he still owes me.”

“Does he need all his fingers to cast spells?” The mercenary threatens, flipping his knife, catching it by the blade. He still hasn’t gotten up from the armchair, but she knows by experience how quick he could be. Constantine doesn’t look at all like he’s worried, instead he takes another drag of his cigarette and gestures to her with the jar of blood.

“Come on then, if you’re in such a rush.”

She sighs heavily, coming to stand in front of him. With his cigarette in the corner of his mouth he dips his fingers into the jar of blood.

“Unless ya want this on your hoodie ya better take it off, luv.” _Does it matter?_ Eleanor wants to say, then she looks down to the slightly washed out blue’s and red’s. There’s a faint stain on the corner of the Superman symbol from coffee, that despite Alfred’s best effort never really went away. She pulls it over her head, leaving her in a black t-shirt. The hotel room air is cold against her skin, but before she can cross her arms Constantine brings a finger up and starts drawing on her arm. Eleanor makes a face at the room-temperature liquid touching her, suppressing a shiver.

“Is this necessary?”

Constantine blows smoke in her face, and quicker than he can react she swipes the cigarette from his lips and crushes it under her trainers on the hardwood floor.

“Bloody woman.” He grumbles, glaring at her, “and _yes_ , it’s necessary.”

Once her upper arms are covered in swirly and pointy symbols that she has no clue what they mean, Constantine puts the jar back down, gestures for her to go stand in the middle of the runes on the floor. Raising his arms slightly, he pauses to stare at her.

“Look, Eleanor. I ain’t gonna tell ya how to live your life–“

“Then don’t.”

“ _But,_ you don’t have to do this, luv. There’s other way’s to work through grief.”

“Just do the fucking ritual, Constantine.” Eleanor snaps, feeling her patience wearing thin but with her anger and frustration comes tears, she tilts her head up to try and blink them away. Then in a low, broken voice she says. “Please, John, just… please.”

The warlock sighs heavily, then clears his throat and in a low almost haunting voice he starts chanting. This time it’s not that odd Latin, it’s something that makes the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand, her gut twisting, goosebumps run across her body and all her caveman instincts scream at her to _get out now!_

Slade shoots out of the armchair; his entire body screaming prepared for a fight. Eye darting between her and John who’s raising his hands slowly as the chanting gets louder. One after one the glyphs on the ground is set alight with sickly green fire that feels cold rather than warm.

“Kid.” Slade says, Eleanor jerks her head to the side to look at him. “This is a bad idea, get out of there.”

She can’t move.

Eleanor breathes in, the fire smells familiar. This sickly sweet smell that she immediately recognizes, one that she’d never forget. Dead bodies. She gags, then the runes on her upper arms light up too, and it hurts. It’s a burning pain but not the kind you’d get from fire. It’s just so _cold._ Someone’s screaming as she crumbles onto her knees on the floor. It’s too much. _Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstop!_

“Kid!” Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Slade takes a step towards her, Eleanor grits her teeth. The green fire flares around her, almost waist height now and John’s eyes flare the same greenish colour. The flames lick at her throat, and _Eleanor can’t breathe._

A pulse of energy washes across them all, Slade takes a step back not to get knocked over instead he is pushed back several feet, Constantine is thrown against the outer wall and slumps to the ground. Then the fire goes out, and the room goes eerily quiet.

Eleanor breathes in, the animal blood that had coated her arms are gone, fizzled away by whatever magic John had summoned. She looks at her hands, she doesn’t feel any different, doesn't look any differently. Was this it? Or did something go wrong?

“Well,” John says, pushing himself up slightly as he lights another cigarette. “That didn’t go as planned.”

“How am I still here?” Eleanor questions, staring wide eyed at the warlock. “Where is Jason?” _Jason's supposed to be here, right?_

“Beats me, luv.” John shrugs.

“So it didn’t work?” She gets up to her feet, the symbols on the ground are burned out too, leaving nothing behind.

“No, it worked alright. There just wasn’t anything to trade. The connection snapped, like uh... a rubber band, the pulse was the backlash.”

Eleanor swallows thickly, had she failed Jay again?

“Trade.” Slade says, arching a questioning eyebrow. “Explain.” Both of them ignore him.

“What do you mean there wasn’t anything to trade John?” Frustration bleeds into her words. “Did it work or not?”

Constantine grunts, getting up on his feet to move over and plonk himself down on the couch instead.

“The spell worked fine, luv. A willing soul for a willing soul. Only there was no willing soul waitin’ on the other side.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey and tips it back before clearing his throat. “Either your Jason wasn’t willing, which is kind of weird, since he wouldn’t know who was being traded for who. Or the powers that be didn’t accept the trade, which could happen I s’ppose.” Constantine’s brow furrows as if in deep thought.

“Try it again.” Eleanor demands, taking a step to the slouching warlock. He just looks at her as though she’s crazy. Maybe she is.

“Hang on a minute.” Slade says then, having gone still in the open room. “You wanted to trade your life for–“

“Yes!” Eleanor snarls, “now shut the fuck up. John, try it again!”

“No can do, luv. Spell like that ain’t easy on the soul, and the ingredients... Well you know. There’s a reason it took a bloody month to gather it all.”

“So we gather it again, there has to be–“

“I don’t think so.” Slade says and then he lunges at her. Eleanor barley manages to evade him, and as soon as she regains her footing Slade’s got her wrist firmly in his hand. Even on a good day she’d have difficult taking him on – who’s she kidding, even on a good day she’d get her ass handed to her and now? With alcohol in her system, with little to no food and sleep? Yeah, no chance.

He twists her arm over her back and pushes it up until it’s straining and her shoulder throbs painfully, a small cry of pain escapes her lips.

“Fuck you!” Eleanor snarls, taking several steps forward to try and get away from him, Slade follows her until she’s pressed up against one of the walls.

“Stop struggling, kid. You’re _not_ going to win.” She doesn’t stop, kicking at him and clawing with her free hand, it’s pathetic.

“Please…” Eleanor begs, a pitiful sob escaping her, she tries to push back against Slade’s grip on her arm again, he doesn’t budge. Cold metal press against the wrist he’s holding.

Eleanor breathes out harshly, “ _I can’t_ … Not anymore. _Please…_ ” Tears well out of her eyes, her shoulders shake from her sobbing. If it weren’t for Slade pressing her up against the wall she would have dropped to the floor.

“I-… I’m sorry, kiddo.” John says from across the room, his voice softer than she’d ever heard him before. Like he knows the pain she’s going through. Eleanor wants to shout and curse at him for giving up, but all that leaves her lips is another miserable sob before suddenly her hoodie is shoved over her head, then Slade manhandles her arms into the sleeves before clicking the cuff on to her other wrist. Binding her hands behind her back. A small hysterical part of her brain is laughing at being dressed by Deathstroke.

“It’d say it’s been a pleasure, Constantine. But it hasn’t. You better hope you never get a contract sent after you.”

“Cheers then, mate. Now piss off.”

Slade grips her upper arm and leads her out of the room, she keeps stumbling over her own feet as they walk down the hallway to the stairs. The tears in her eyes making it difficult to see. After almost falling the third time Slade grunts in annoyance and hoists her up like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. It should feel humiliating to be carried like it, but honestly Eleanor is beyond the point of caring. The fact that they can walk out the front entrance like this speaks volumes about the area too, the clerk at the desk doesn’t even turn around from watching the TV when they do.

Eleanor shuts her eyes as they exit, her sobbing having subsided to quiet tears running down her cheeks. They feel like ice on her skin when the cold air hits. Not long after Slade shoves her into the front seat of a car, slamming the door shut once she’s slumped in the seat. Slade gets in the driver's seat a moment later, starting the car without looking at her, and driving off without a word spoken between them. Eleanor sits hunched in the seat, head hanging forward with her black hair covering her face like a curtain. Her right arm hurts from the strain put on it, and the cuffs are not helping ease that pain.

But it fades in comparison to the pain in her chest, it’s like she’s drowning. Gasping for breath she can’t seem to catch. _She had failed him again._ After a month trying to find Constantine, a month spent quivering like a leaf in various hotels, dry heaving into a toilet before passing out on the floor only to wake up half an hour later needing to throw up again because all she saw when she closed her eyes was Jason’s broken body on the ground.

Then finding John, having a small nugget of hope brought forward at the mention of the ritual he could perform. The hard month of finding all of the things required, of finding – and stealing (does it count as stealing if it was already stolen?) the stupid statue John had wanted as payment. Eleanor had gotten better at controlling her panic attacks, Jason’s shuriken helped. Tracing the R shaped of it with her fingers, even just looking at it had a calming effect.

Even Slade’s interference hadn’t been that disruptive, with his mysterious employer seemingly caring for her mission. She’d inquired once who it was, and he’d just looked at her like she was stupid.

And now…

Eleanor had been willing to give up her own life in payment if it meant Jason got a second chance. Even though there had only been a three year age gap between them she still thought of him as a little kid, her little brother, her responsibility. Eleanor misses his toothy grins, his enthusiastic mannerism and even his huge appetite for both food and life. Jason had spent the first twelve years of his life in the streets of Crime Alley hounded by an abusive father and with no protection from his addict of a mother, then by dumb luck or fate, he’d gotten a chance at being happy. Of not having to live with his back pressed against a wall in fear of getting stabbed, and then it had been ruthlessly ripped away from him by a maniac who _somehow_ was still alive.

“You’ve gotta snap out of it, kid.” Slade’s gruff voice startles her out of her melancholy thoughts. Eleanor makes a noncommittal sound, tilting her head away from the mercenary.

“I’m serious, this destructive behaviour is beneath you.”

“Why do you even care?” She rasps out, her throat hurts from talking. He grunts.

“You’ve got potential, kid. But only if you pull yourself out of this hole you’ve dug.”

“Am I just supposed to forget J–…” his name dies on her tongue, Eleanor blinks back tears. “ _I can’t._ ”

“Then you’ll die.” Slade drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Is that what Jason would want?”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Is it? Would he want you to wallow in self-pity? It’s pathetic. Get over it.”

Eleanor doesn’t say anything because she knows he’s right, she’s pathetic and she doesn’t care.

The car comes to a stop, and for a moment the only noise is her breathing. Then Slade shifts and grabs her jaw, forcing her to look at him. He stares at her for a long while, as if searching for something in her eyes. Whatever it is he sees makes him scoff and he withdraws his fingers from her face.

Eleanor keeps her head down as he grabs her arm again once they’re out of the car, leading her into the warmth of a hotel lobby. He pauses briefly in front of another man who opens a door for them, and Slade drags her into an elevator, pushing the button to the top, to the penthouse she’s guessing. Slade Wilson didn’t come cheap after all, the person who hired him must be incredibly filthy rich.

The scent of lavender strikes her as a bit weird when the elevator opens. The basic, animalistic part of her brain tells her that now would be a perfect time to try and escape, Eleanor had no idea if the person Slade was bringing her to wanted her dead or alive. There are no bodyguards leading up to the thick double doors, no cameras or any other defences. She shoves the nosy detective part of her away, it’s not like it mattered anyway.

Slade pushes the doors open; the scent of lavender is increased in this room. Incense, Eleanor notes, seeing the sticks of them sticking up from a colourful ceramic jar on a low table with pillows around it. In front of the large windows overlooking London there’s a tall man with grey hair and a long green cloak that she recognises despite not having seen his face.

Eleanor digs her heels into the red carpet, “Ra’s al Ghul.” She spits the name out like a curse. Slade jerks her forward again, stopping just shy of the steps leading up to the windows. Ra’s turns slowly, like the supervillain he is, looks briefly at her before turning to Slade.

“Uncuff her if you please, Mr Wilson.”

Slade does, then looks up to the leader of the League of Assassins. “My payment?”

“Transferred, just as you wished.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Slade’s voice drips with sarcasm, then he looks at her. “If you manage to get out of here alive, come find me, sweetheart. You might be worth my while.”

“Fuck you.” She snaps, feeling her anger get the better of her. Slade chuckles, turns on the spot and leaves out the doors they came in. Once they shut with a soft click, Ra’s gestures to the table with the lavender on it, only there’s a white porcelain teapot set on a tray there now too, and a bald man dressed in fine black silks stands nearby.

“Come, sit. We have matters to discuss.” Ra’s says, walking over and sitting down, he gestures to the pot of steaming liquid and the servant pours some into the cups, before taking a step back. She begrudgingly walks over and sits down as far away from Ra’s as she can on the soft pillows, feeling very defensive.

Ra’s raises an eyebrow, “Would you like some tea, Eleanor?”

“Why am I here?”

“No tea then? Very well.” He picks a cup up and sips it, seemingly not bothered at all by her hostile demeanour. Eleanor tries not to fidget, tries to be patient. There was one thing to insult Slade Wilson, the bastard probably enjoyed a bit of back talk, that and the mercenary hadn’t been working with a kill contract. He had a code after all.

Ra’s was under no such compulsion, and Eleanor couldn’t read the man at all. He could probably kill her from where he was sat without raising a finger, or have one of his assassins do it for him.

If she was going to die she wanted it to be for a reason. Not just because Ra’s had taken an interest to her.

Ra’s puts the cup down delicately, then turns his piercing green eyes to her.

“I must offer my condolences for the untimely demise of your adopted brother, Eleanor.”

Her jaw clenches, she subdues the impulse to tell him to fuck off and take his ‘condolences’ with him.

“I understand you were close?”

Eleanor swallows back more discomfort, “why am I here, Ra’s?”

He smiles for all intents and purposes a pleasant smile, though she feels more like a deer in headlights by the predatory look in his eyes.

“Because I wish to speak to you.”

“You could have called,” Eleanor says drily.

“Perhaps.” Ra’s sips his tea again, “but perhaps I wished to have a face to face conversation.”

“Okay,” she lifts her arms up as if to say, ‘here I am’, “what did you want to talk about?” Eleanor will play his game, for now.

“You, my dear. I wish to speak about your future.”

Eleanor grimaces.

“You see,” Ra’s starts, putting his cup down again. “I have been watching for a while now, and I believe that I could… _assist_ you. It is clear as day that you are not well, and there are many techniques I could teach you to allow you to process the death of your loved one.”

She nods, “I’m sure you could, but why on earth would I accept help from the leader of a terrorist organization?”

If Ra's is offended by her words, he doesn't show it. His responding smile is a bit too sharp to be genuine, however.

“I do not come to you as the leader of the League of Assassins. But as a father. I am sure you are well aware of my fondness for the Detective, and I do not wish to see him deprived of yet another child.”

Manipulative son of a bitch. Eleanor almost curses, because of fucking course he would know where to poke to get the best response out of her. Playing on her dad’s emotional state and her love for her family. She takes a couple of calming breaths, the lavender helps. _Another trick_. Her mind screams.

“Thank you for your _concern_ ,” Eleanor bites out, trying to sound as unaffected by his words as she can. “But I’m not interested.”

“Of course.” Ra’s says, he doesn’t smile, but Eleanor can guess that he’s amused by her struggle. She wonders when the ninja's are going to show up to stab her for being rude.

Now what?

“Am I free to leave?” She tries to watch his face for any signs of well, anything. Dishonesty, scheming or whatever else it was that supervillains got up to. But the slow building headache was making it difficult to focus.

“Why of course, my dear. I do apologize for Mr Wilson; he was never meant to harm you.” So what, he pays Deathstroke a ridiculous amount of money for a less than ten minute conversation and is just going to let her leave? Eleanor wasn’t going to pretend to guess the motives of an immortal megalomaniac, but something smelled bad.

Eleanor warily gets up from the pillows, half expecting the aforementioned ninjas to jump her at any moment. When none do, she walks over to the door.

“Just one other thing, Eleanor.” Ra’s says, also getting up from the pillows. She turns slowly, tensing.

“If you do not wish to accept my help with your wellbeing, perhaps you would like to know more about your mother's family.”

Okay, she wasn’t expecting that twist. Eleanor had looked up her mother the moment she knew how to use a computer, before that she’d asked Bruce about her. Alice had been a artist, a painter. She’d grown up in Gotham raised by a single mother, Anya Aedan. Anya had died when she was forty-eight, from a heart attack, a year before Alice opened her own art gallery at which she’d met a young Bruce Wayne. Nine months later Alice had died in childbirth. Eleanor was quite aware that she was an accident, it had never really bothered her. Her dad might not be the best at emotional communication, but Eleanor knew that he loved her.

“You see, Alice’s father belonged to the League of Assassins.” Ra’s continues. “His name was Malik Hafeez, he was quite the impressive young man, one of few with inherent talent.”

Eleanor stares at him for a long while, then she jerks the door open and slams it shut once she’s out.

She would _not_ become a pawn in Ra’s al Ghul’s sick game.


	2. It Hurts Like Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months after declining Ra's offer, Eleanor tries new coping mechanisms to deal with her PTSD.

_** 2015 – April – Berlin **_

“ _So_ … Aside from being sexy, what do you do for a living?”

The heavy German accented English makes Eleanor pause with her drink halfway to her lips, raising a very unimpressed eyebrow at the blonde man giving her an attempt at a flirty wink. Then at the hand resting on her upper arm. What was it about her slouched posture, pulled up hair and smudged makeup that attracted people to her?

Seriously. This was like the third guy who’d approached her, _this night alone_.

She places her free hand on top of the blonde’s then grips his fingers and bends them backwards, the guy lets out a startled yelp, snatching his hand away, Eleanor lets him.

“Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers.” She says, then goes back to her drink, the bitter liquor burning down her throat when she sips it. He blinks owlishly at her before scurrying away back to his mates, who laugh at him. Eleanor rolls her eyes, grabbing the attention of the bartender and taps at her shot glass. Despite the hostility she’d shown to the other guy Eleanor can’t help but think that he’s kind of attractive, black haired and blue eyed with a pleasant white toothed smile, if a bit pale. Dressed in a black button up with rolled up sleeves that show off well defined muscles and the fact that he clearly takes care of himself. She doesn’t miss how he subtly eyes the low cut cleavage of the top she’s sporting.

He refills her glass with more jaeger, “you want to talk about it?” He’s got a Brooklyn accent, she notes, he looks around her age, maybe a bit older, in his early twenties. Where she sober she might comment on the fact that he was far from home. Instead Eleanor downs the liquorice tasting liquor in one go.

“Talk about what?”

“About what’s got you down. I hear bartenders are good listeners.”

She snorts, staring down at her… what was it again? Some sort of tonic with lime in it. The drink was terrible if Eleanor was honest with herself, but she was pleasantly buzzed so she didn’t mind too much at this point. Eleanor swirls the clear liquid in her glass a couple of times, pursing her lips.

“I was the vigilante known as Nightingale, six months ago my brother, Robin, was murdered by the Joker and now I’m in Germany getting drunk in a shitty bar because even a master of the magical arts couldn’t resurrect him.”

Is what she’d like to say.

What she actually does say is, “I actually don’t feel like talking.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and she props her elbows up on the bar, giving him a better view of her cleavage. He looks, before dragging his eyes back up to meet hers. Eleanor definitely wouldn’t flirt with anyone under normal circumstances, but the buzz of the alcohol is lowering her inhibitions enough that she doesn’t care, and well, she’s got a type apparently.

The bartender leans closer, a sly smirk on his lips. “What do you feel like doing?”

“You.” Eleanor is close enough to him that she can feel the heat of his skin, before she pulls back. Taking another sip of her drink, deliberately letting some of it spill out the corner of her mouth and watching as he follows the movement of her tongue as she licks it up.

“My shift ends in an hour.”

Eleanor hum’s noncommittally, pushing her shot glass in his direction with one finger. “I guess I could wait.”

Later, when bartender guy has her pressed up against the wall just inside his apartment, his breath hot against her ear and Eleanor’s legs wrapped around his hips. He thrusts hard against her, drawing a moan out of her and pulls back to look at her, she closes her eyes.

“My name is–“

She jerks him in by the collar of his shirt and presses her lips against his in a biting kiss to interrupt him.

“No names.”

His fingers move up her tank top, pushing it up so it’s over her breasts, “no names,” he agrees, kissing down her neck and dragging his teeth down her collar bone. “bed?”

“Bed.”

He leads her stumbling through his apartment, undoing his button up shirt as he goes and when they reach the bedroom she pushes him down into the mattress. Fingers deftly working on undoing his jeans and push his underwear down before she wraps her fingers around his half-hard length. He groans, fingers digging into the cover.

“Condom?” Eleanor questions, moving her hand up and down him. The bartender lets out another low moan before gesturing at the bedside table, managing to open the drawer from where he lay. She glances over, spots the square package and quickly rips it open before putting it on him. Getting out of the bed briefly enough to pull her own jeans and underwear off she doesn’t pause or stop to think before she climbs back on him pressing her hands against his pecs to keep him on his back. If she closes her eyes and ignores the noises he’s making she can almost imagine Dick’s calloused hands on her body when she lowers herself onto him.

Eleanor tilts her head back, tears building at the corner of her eyes with every roll of her hips. She’s glad that the only light in the room is coming from the moon shining through the window, so he can’t see her face as she chases after her release. Rubbing her fingers against herself to hasten the process. When Eleanor does come, it sneaks up on her and has her hunching over. Biting her lip to muffle any noise that she’d normally let free. He groans bellow her, hips thrusting up in an irregular pattern, before she rolls off him and passes out.

Eleanor wakes up with sunlight hitting her straight in the eyes, a pounding headache and her mouth tasting like death. She sits up slowly, rubbing at her temple when she feels a hand on her lower back.

“Mornin’, gorgeous.” Eleanor stills, oh right. She went home with someone, the bartender with the blue eyes. Most of her memory is fuzzy in her head, but she definitely remember having sex with him.

“Uhm, morning?” She rasps out. _Where are her clothes?_

“Oh wow… You’ve got loads of scars.”

Eleanor quickly tugs her top down to cover up and moves away from his wandering hand. This was getting more and more awkward by every passing minute. Rubbing her eyes she searches the room, she’d slept in her long sleeved top and bra, but she was missing her underwear, jeans and one sock.

“That was a bit rude, sorry. I’ll make it up to you, how about breakfast? I make mean pancakes.”

She blinks, refusing to turn around and look at him. She’d slept with someone that wasn’t… Eleanor knew that technically she hadn’t cheated; her and Dick had broken up months ago. But her heart didn’t get the memo, and _fuck_ , she felt so guilty.

Spotting her clothes she quickly redresses, pinching the bridge of her nose to try and clear her head a bit. The guy moves around too, Eleanor is carefully avoiding making eye contact with him, which gets harder when he stops in front of her.

“You okay?”

Eleanor can feel herself slipping, the angst and guilt building into what she knows will soon end up being a full on panic attack. She needs to… she pats at her neck to try with trembling fingers to find the comfortable weight of the chain, but it’s not there.

“My necklace,” she gasps out.

“Uh, I think you dropped it over here?” He says, moving back to the other side of the bed. Eleanor follows on unsteady legs, clinging to the bedframe for support. When he stands again he’s got the shuriken in his hand and holds it out to her. Eleanor immediately snatches it to her, running her fingers over the familiar bumpy metal to calm her racing heart.

She sees the hand out of the corner of her eye and surprisingly fluidly doges it when the guy tries to put it on her shoulder. Then looks up to meet his eyes. Her stomach clenches, and for a moment she feels like she might actually throw up. Eleanor forces herself to breath in through her nose.

What the hell had she been thinking?

Black hair and blue eyes yes, but that’s where the similarity ended. Not even the same shade of blue. Eleanor swallows back bile.

“I need to go.” She mutters, grabbing her shoes and pulling them on as she steps out of the bedroom, the guy follows behind her, he’s talking but honestly she can’t make any of the words out. Her jacket is on the floor next to the front door and she grabs it, doesn’t put it on until she’s out of the building.

Somehow she manages to get back to her hotel room in a haze, walking through the cold spring morning streets of Berlin. As soon as she slams the door close behind her she starts pealing off her clothes and steps into the shower before she’s even set the right temperature. Eleanor scrubs her body clean until her skin is pink and feels raw under her touch, then dressed only in a bathrobe she collapses onto the couch and cries until she passes out.

When she wakes up later it’s almost dark outside, and the clock on her burner phone tells her it’s seven-thirty. Sitting up slowly she turns her laptop on, eyes darting back to the phone. The temptation is there, Eleanor knows Dick’s number by heart. She could call him, he’d answer, and he would talk to her because he’s just that good of a person. The letter she had written to him is still on the table next to the laptop, along with the one addressed to Jason.

Eleanor sighs, looking over to the empty bottle of rum on the table, remembering the reason she’d gone to that bar to begin with. It hadn’t started out like this. She’d only drunk enough to not get any nightmares, that had been the purpose of it all. Then it had just gotten easier, being buzzed was enough to keep her darker thoughts at bay. It was a weak excuse, part of her thinks that maybe she should have just taken Ra’s up on his offer.

Eleanor types in the password to her computer, pulling up the web browser and clicks on the Gotham Gazette link. She hadn’t actually checked the news in a long while now, too drunk to care. Eleanor skims through it, ignoring headlines like ‘Wayne Enterprises donates one million dollars’ and ‘Simon Stagg to unveil new step forward in medical science!’. She almost misses the headline that makes her blood run cold.

‘Joker still at large!’

Eleanor clicks the link, getting rid of the annoying popups as she scrolls down the page.

_‘The police still have no new leads on the Joker after he shot and paralyzed the newly appointed Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, Barbara Gordon. Miss Gordon, who just turned nineteen, was admitted to Gotham General with a spinal injury two weeks ago, sources confirm that Miss Gordon will not be able to walk again. No statement has been issued by the family.’_

She waits for the anger to hit her, waits for that uncontrollable rage as she reads more and more, but there’s nothing. Instead all she feels is disappointment and sadness. Eleanor reaches for her phone almost automatically, while Barbara and she hadn’t been very close she still considered the woman part of her family. After all, when you fought side by side with someone you formed bonds not easily broken. What would she say if she called her now? _‘I’m sorry you’re crippled for life?’_ or _‘Sorry I didn’t kill him when I had the chance?’_.

Another life ruined by the Joker, and when Batman caught him _again_ , he would just return the maniac to Arkham. When was enough, enough? Killing Jason, paralyzing Barbara, what next? What line did the sick monster have to cross to finally be put down?

Eleanor closes the link to the newspaper and is met with her mothers face on the screen. Alice Aedan were soft when Eleanor was sharp angles, chocolate brown hair that curled ever so slightly, Alice’s skin a warm tan that Eleanor herself could never attain. She had her mother’s eyes though, the same almond shaped brown almost black colour framed by thick and long lashes. In the picture, Alice’s red lips are tilted up slightly in a coy smile, it’s from a news article about of her art gallery. It’s dated the fifteenth of October nineteen-ninety-six.

There are newer pictures of her of course, but most if not all are taken by paparazzi during the pregnancy and sold to gossip tabloids with titles like ‘Billionaire Bruce Wayne knocks up local Gothamite.” It had been a proper scandal, and when Alice had died, all the papers had talked about was that Bruce Wayne _surely_ wouldn’t keep the baby. _Jokes on them_ , Eleanor thinks, reaching up to close the laptop.

Eleanor puts clothes on and heads out, making sure to take her necklace and some cash with her. She didn’t really need anything else. By the time she passes the third fast food restaurant she gives in to her grumbling stomach and pushes the doors open to the place. She orders a burger on the go and manages to eat about half of it when she hears the sound of a struggle up ahead. Part of her tells her she should just let it go, Eleanor isn’t a vigilante anymore, it wasn’t her problem.

She sighs. Looking wistfully at the remains of her burger, before tossing it in a nearby trashcan. The German voices get louder as she turns down an alleyway, Eleanor pulls her hood up to cover her face – old habits after all. There’s six people total, four guys and two girls. The two girls are stood a bit further away, both sneering, throwing homophobic insults and slurs around.

One of the guys is on the ground, looking dazed with a large red mark on his cheek. The second guy, with a red scarf wrapped around his neck, is being pushed quite forcefully against one of the brick walls by a guy almost twice his size. The fourth and final guy turns towards her as she approaches.

“Let them go,” Eleanor says, flexing her fingers.

Number Four scoffs, _“you hear that guys, this American thinks she’s tough shit.”_ The two girls giggle, turning their ire towards her now, calling her a number of insulting things. She rolls her eyes, taking a threatening step forward.

“I’ll only tell you one more time,” Eleanor growls out, Red Scarf whimpers as Number Three’s fingers dig into his shoulder. She switches over to German, “ _let them go, or I’ll kick your ass._ ”

Four laughs, stepping forward and raises his hand to grab her, Eleanor ducks out of the way, grabs his wrist and twists him until she can press his arm up his back, knowing he’ll have to step away from her or risk dislocating his shoulder. Four lets out a startled yelp as he tumbles – barely managing to catch himself when he almost faceplants the ground.

 _“What the hell?”_ Three says, releasing Red Scarf to help his buddy up. Four ignores his friends outstretched hand with a look of surprise on his face. When Eleanor holds her hand out to the guy on the ground however, Four quickly gets back on his feet.

_“Who do you think you are, bitch?”_

_“Bitch!”_ One of the harpies screeches in echo, the other one lets out a similar squawk. Four goes to push her and Eleanor quickly ducks under his arm, striking her foot out to trip him up and he goes sailing onto his face yet again. Three takes the opportunity to try and make a grab for her so she drives her elbow into his stomach and watches him wheeze out a breath, moving away from her. The smarter of the two, clearly. The harpies lash out as well, but instead of grabbing or shoving they claw at her with ridiculously long – and pink, nails. Eleanor ducks one, blocks the other one and slaps it away from her.

Eleanor doesn’t say anything as she stares them all down, standing protectively in front of the two victims. Four’s pride doesn’t let him give up though, Eleanor has seen similar looks in guys back in Gotham a hundred times over. He throws a sloppy punch that probably would have hurt him just as much as it would have hurt her if it had connected, instead she bats it away and strikes out against the bundle of nerves on his other arm, the limb goes limp, Eleanor watches as panic crawls into his face.

 _“What did you do?”_ He yells, cradling his arm. Her lips quirk up into a half smile, it felt good to let lose, even if she was holding back. These guys deserved whatever came their way for the way they’d been bullying the other two but, criminals, by nature, are a cowardly and superstitious lot. All Eleanor needed was a little fear, and maybe, just maybe, they would refrain from doing anything like this again.

Quick as a snake, she coils out and strikes his other arm, watching as it drops limp to his side. It wouldn’t last for very long, but she didn’t need it too.

“If you’re quick,” Eleanor murmurs darkly, “I won’t do the same to your legs.”

Four’s eyes widen and then he’s running. Or rather scrambling down the alley with his arms uselessly hanging at his sides. The two girls squawk at each other again, surprise colouring their eyes as they watch the _big strong man_ run away like a terrified child. One of them, the taller of the two lashes out in blind anger and Eleanor quickly redirects the blonde’s punch and jabs her fingers to the other woman’s ribs. The blonde wails like a banshee, overdramatically clutching at her side, it works in Eleanor’s favour. The other man, the one she’d elbowed in the gut is finally getting his breath back.

“Please,” he wheezes in a heavy German accent, “don’t hurt me.”

Eleanor takes one step towards him, and he scrambles away, the harpies following a moment later. When they’re out of view, she rolls her shoulders back, stretching her neck. Then turns to look at the remaining two. Red Scarf helps the guy up from the ground, carefully tilting his head back to inspect the forming bruise on his cheek.

“Thank you,” bruised guy says, blinking at her over Red Scarf’s shoulder. Who nods, lacing their fingers together.

“Yes, thank you for standing up to those people.”

Eleanor shrugs, “put some ice on your cheek,” she says, tapping her own. Before she turns and strolls back the way she came from.

She feels better than she has in ages when she heads back to the open street, the adrenaline after the fight still flooding her system. But it wasn’t enough, those guys hadn’t been anything close to what she usually went up against. No challenge.

Eleanor needed more.

Instead of heading to another bar that night she walks into a costume shop. There’s a variety of choices, everything from the Justice League to slutty Halloween outfits. She’s being stupid, she knows. Eleanor should just contact Alfred or Lucius and have something dropped off, but it’s not just the need for vengeance and justice she’d gotten from her dad. Eleanor was just too damn stubborn to ask for help. Over the course of a couple of weeks Eleanor manages to buy enough material to have a working suit, and some gadgets, it’s not nearly anything like the quality she’s used to. But it’ll do its job.

It’s a full body black suit and tight against her skin, tighter than the Nightingale suit had been, and the Rogue suit as well. A red sash low on her hips, with a couple of pockets spread out over her thighs, wrists and calf. Eleanor had debated for a long time if she should add the bat symbol to it, but ultimately had decided not to. She hadn’t spoken to B in a long time, and she didn’t want to bring attention to herself in that way.

On the first night out, she stops four robberies and two assaults while mentally mapping the city from the rooftops. Berlin is beautiful, and not without crime, but it’s no Gotham. Every punch she throws, every person saved fuels the fire, the _need_ of more.

Eleanor gets reckless, arrogant. Taking punches she could have avoided or allowing slashes with a knife to graze her because like sharks they fight harder when they smell blood. But at the end of the day – or the night as it were, it’s still just too damned easy.

She breaks into a police station and steals some case file data off a computer ridiculously easily. In the morning when Eleanor gets back to her hotel room, she sorts through them and finds two that catch her interest. _(She also finds a cold case that she solves while fixing her grappling hook and sends an anonymous mail to the detective in charge with a file attached to it.)_

One’s a missing kids case, pointing towards a human trafficking ring connected to Blüdhaven and Roland Desmond. The second one is an firearms trafficking case that’s been worked by the German police for months now with no new intel, but she recognises the work of the Russian Bratva. It links to other major cities in Europe too, and Eleanor would bet her right arm on Interpol being involved.

The firearms and Russians can wait.

The kids can’t.

It’s easy to forget, Eleanor thinks as she’s sat on a rooftop for the umptieth time this week, that most organized crimefighting takes place as stakeouts and stakeouts by their very nature are incredibly boring. Another week goes by with Eleanor growing more and more impatient – excess energy being spent on seeing how long she can do a handstand on the edge of the rooftop. Then she gets her lead, a slip up in security and she follows a vehicle through the city – glad that she’d taken the time to map it, to a warehouse. _It’s always a warehouse._ Eleanor busts the security, frees the kids and calls the police. The next day she’s in the news as a security camera catches her leaving the warehouse – really it’s just a black blur when she’s grappling away but it’s enough that she gains the name ‘Black Blur’ (Eleanor isn’t a fan). The case explodes and exposes several other branches of the trafficking ring. A shipment is taken down in the middle of the Atlantic with the help of Aquaman, freeing another ten dozen kids, and sending a couple hundred of Desmond’s acquaintances and henchmen (and acquaintances henchmen!) to prison. 

Eleanor goes to bed without alcohol in her system the first time in months and doesn’t get nightmares. It works! She’s found something that actually works other than wallowing in self-pity and getting drunk. She feels good, better than good! Eleanor is reaching for her phone to call home, to call Alfred, it’s a good middle ground to start with. He wouldn’t judge her too much, maybe he’d even be proud of her.

Then an explosion goes off on the TV and she’s back in the mountains and all she can see is smoke and all she can smell is burning flesh. She passes out trying to find Jason’s shuriken, coming back to a couple of hours later with the worst headache she’s ever had.

Eleanor doesn’t go out that night, instead she orders champagne from the hotel and gets so drunk she throws up before passing out again on the bathroom floor. Another week passes before she manages to drag herself out of her room, telling herself that maybe it was an off fluke, if she solved the firearms trafficking case it would get better.

So she does. More long stakeouts, going over old case notes and eating street food. It’s tempting to bring a bottle of something stronger with her, just in case something triggers her panic attack again, instead she keeps the shuriken close to hand and tries to reign in her more terrible impulses. Eleanor is distracted this time, thinking too much about how she’ll feel better afterwards, and it costs her. She slips up and they spot her, taking a bullet to the front of her thigh. She has to leave before she can find anything else out, or risk bleeding out on some rooftop before she can make it back to the hotel. When she goes back after her leg is somewhat healed there are no traces that they were even there to begin with.

Then it gets worse because of course it does.

The alcohol stops working. She wakes up in cold sweat, gagging and trying to breathe with images of Jason’s brutalized body behind her eyelids.

Eleanor is so tired, nothing she tries works. Tired of being afraid, of feeling like a disappointment. She wants to go _home_ , but even that is an alarming thought that she shuts down before it can take any root. Then the terrifying thought of the shuriken’s calming effect also not working is what finally gets her to decide.

Ra’s al Ghul might be a supervillain. But right now, Eleanor had nowhere else to go.

So with her tail between her legs she slinks back to London, to the penthouse that Slade had taken her to four months ago. She’s not surprised when the guard opens the door for her without question, nor the other darkly clad people that flank her into the lift.

Ra’s stands on the same elevated spot in front of the windows, facing her this time though. He smiles, looking very pleased with himself.

“Excellent, Eleanor.” He says, arms crossed behind his back. “Let us begin, shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have done my best to try and describe PTSD and panic attacks but I have not experienced them myself. Research can do much but not account for actual experience, if there are anything that might be counted as inaccuracies they are unintentional.
> 
> Leave a kudos and a comment of you like! They always make me smile and as always thank you for reading!


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